


Unacceptable Behaviour

by QueenMegaera



Category: James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Age Difference, Internalized Homophobia, It's the 50's, M's better but he's not a progressive superhero either, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, also a warning for Bond's homophobic/sexist/racist language throughout, identity crisis, that really should have been the only tag shouldn't it, the thin line between ego and self-hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMegaera/pseuds/QueenMegaera
Summary: The idea of M. as a sexual being opened up a Pandora's Box in Bond's mind, and while he desperately tried to snap the lid back on, the thoughts flew out, one after the other. A vague memory of someone mentioning, early in his career in the service, that M. had taken the day off because of his wife's funeral. The ring on M.'s finger. The picture of a young woman in a 30's dress that stood on the sideboard in M.'s office, a beautiful woman who smirked back at the viewer with intelligent eyes. Eyes that surely would have noticed it if her husband was ... A sudden vision of a younger M. and his wife in bed, making love. And, as James scrambled to shut that one out, in its place came the image of M. bent over a faceless male body, hands on another man's hips, and ... No, God, why were these images in his head?Bond's mouth was dry, and his heart was beating in his chest like a distressed animal throwing itself at the walls of its cage.M. studied him, and for a few horrific seconds Bond was sure his every thought was written on his face."You look confused, James," M. said.
Relationships: James Bond/M
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Unacceptable Behaviour

**Author's Note:**

> I've written Craig!Bond. Or my version of that Bond, anyway.
> 
> The reason I'm suddenly writing Bond in the 50's, is that I just read Goldfinger. And while I'm usually quite able to not let the racism and sexism get to me on the basis that it's par for the course for the 1950's, (occasionally even slightly more progressive than the public opinion of the time), there were a few things in this novel that really grated on me. In particular Bond's continued use of the word "ape" to describe the Korean goons working for Goldfinger. (It's always Bond being a bigot, never his colleagues or allies, so I'm beginning to suspect Fleming wrote him that way on purpose.) So, I came out of the book annoyed with Bond and wishing someone would put him in his place. And the only one who can do that (as far as I've come through the novels) is M. Because, let me tell you, if you thought Craig!Bond had issues when it comes to M, Novel!Bond has him beat.

London, the late 1950's

M. looked up from the report of Bond's last mission – the one that had ended with Auric Goldfinger and his private gold reserve at the bottom of the ocean. (A solution that had earned Bond the ire of the Bank of England, since they had hoped to get the gold back, but found it hard to openly disapprove of a resolution that had, after all and in a very final way, put an end to Goldfinger's gradual destruction of the gold market.) M. had been leafing through it while Bond told the story in more detail than the dry text on the page, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows had been growing deeper as the tale went on. Well, that was understandable. What had begun as a mission to reveal a gold smuggler had turned into a mission to stop a robbery of Fort Knox. 60 000 people had been one hidden message away from death.

"Stop."

Bond stopped mid-sentence. M.'s grey eyes had turned from soft rain clouds to approaching thunderstorm.

"You can't use this kind of language, Bond. It's unbecoming of the service."

Bond was nonplussed. What had he said? He had been talking about his final confrontation with Oddjob. He hadn't cursed.

"Sir?"

"Several things you've said have been unacceptable, but most significantly, you can't refer to people as 'apes'."

"I didn't put that in the official report, sir. And if you'd met the man, I think you'd agree ..."

Bond had miled his usual smile and leaned back in the visitor's chair, and was startled when M. slammed down the report on the desk, upsetting the inkstand, which rattled precariously close to the edge of the desk before it settled down again.

"No. No, James, I would not."

Bond's eyes widened. His Christian name, rarely used in this building. sounded both foreign and disturbingly intimate whenever M. used it.

"One demented Korean with a saw blade in his bowler hat does not give you an excuse to judge an entire nation of people."

"There were more of them ..." James tried to cut in, unsure of where this was going. Was this merely M. calling his attention to something he found problematic, or was it a serious reprimand? Would there be consequences?

"Goldfinger was an Englishman, As was Hugo Drax, for all intents and purposes. I've never heard you judge your fellow Englishmen based on them. Yet when your mission brings you into contact with someone who looks or speaks in a way you're not used to, you're quick to judge entire sections of the earth's population.” M.’s fingers tapped restlessly against the manilla folder in front of him. “You jump to conclusions, you frequently misjudge the intellect of other people, and you pay far too much attention to the surface of things. You take one look at a person and think you know everything about them. Are you really that conceited?"

Bond was taken aback. It was not the first time M. had told him to broaden his mind, but it had always been related to some particular case in which Bond was not in possession of as many of the facts as M. was. And he had never sounded this angry about it.

"I'm under no illusion that I'm always right, sir. I have to make quick decisions about the people I meet. It's how I do my job. It's how I stay alive, for that matter. I have to err on the side of caution when assessing whether or not someone is a threat. And in general, I'd say I'm pretty good at it. Me sitting here now being the primary proof, sir."

Even as he talked he felt unrest and discomfort crawl through his body like sinister spiders. He was briefly reminded of the searing hot ventilation drum he'd been forced to crawl through in Doctor No's maze of terrors – how he'd been forced to chose between crawling forward, slowly mangling his hands and knees, stabs of pain shooting through his body at each move, or staying still and slowly cook to death. Disagreeing with M. felt like that. It went counter to all his instincts to continue forward in arguing with the man, yet if he didn't, he had to live with M. having a low opinion of him, and that was also intolerable.

"A quick assessment of one's opponent is important," M. agreed, and Bond relaxed somewhat. "Stereotypes are an unfortunate but necessary part of that. But stereotypes are only a useful tool, James, if you are aware that you are using them, and that they will be wrong more often than they are right. You also need to be aware that your harsh judgements and your frankly racist language upsets people that you may not want to, or afford to, upset. Which in turn reflects very poorly on me, I might add."

"But, I'm not ... I've never intended anything I've said as racist, sir."

"You referred to Koreans as 'apes', James. It's a word that has been used about the Irish in the 18th century, the French in the 19th and Africans well into this century. Let's retire the word altogether, shall we? It's infantile and degrading. Surely, in Darwinistic terms, we are either all of us apes, or none of us are. Also, it's my understanding that apes are, on a whole, peaceful and kind creatures, who perhaps do not deserve to be compared to human beings."

The last part, M. said with a slight upturn of the edges of his mouth. Thin lines formed around his eyes as they went from cold and forbidding to warm and humorous like skies clearing and the sun shining through.

Bond had no reply.

"You're right, of course, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Are you?"

Bond blinked. A rhetorical question, surely. What was he meant to reply? Why had his wit deserted him so abruptly? Why did his guts churn low in his belly when M. looked at him like that?

He looked back in silence, sheepishly. M. leaned against the backrest of his chair, but the angle of it meant he was more or less sitting up straight anyway. He was an imposing man. It wasn't his size; Bond thought M. was his height, perhaps an inch or two taller at most, and while his shoulders were straight and broad, they were certainly not the shoulders of an athlete or a body builder. Rather, he had the physique of what he was; a former military man whose athletic pursuits now probably consisted of golf and the occasional swim in the club pool, but who ate well and had few vices. Nor was it his age that made him imposing, even though he was old enough to have served at the tail end of the first world war and risen to an officer's rank by the time the second rolled around. His dark hair was slowly turning grey, with specks of it throughout and fields of silver by his ears. His face bore fewer lines that it might have, and against all odds in a man of his profession they were lines that told of more kind smiles than troubled frowns. No, it was something less obvious that inspired such respect and loyalty. Something in the way M. carried himself, with effortless authority. In the way he could look kind and approachable and absolutely unreadable at the same time.

"And then there's the horrid way you talk about those girls."

Bond blinked.

"I ... I haven't mentioned any girls." Did he mean the Tillerson sisters? Or the more long lived of the Tillersons and Galore? Or all three?

"Not to me. But I overheard you ... _bragging_ to Tanner, if that's what you want to call it."

Bond felt his face grow hot. Had he missed that M. was in the room when he spoke with Tanner? Was that possible? Or were the walls between M.'s and the Chief of Staff's offices that thin? In that case, could Bill hear this discussion? No, that was silly. Secrets of the Realm were discussed in M.'s office.

"I'm not interested in your ... personal affairs with women, James," M said, with the tone of someone who's forced to pick up something filthy from the floor. "But it bothers me to hear one of my men, one of my best men, laugh and jeer about 'converting' a girl from what may or may not have been her natural inclinations. It speaks very ill of your regard for a woman's own will and makes me worry about what you're capable of."

Now, Bond gripped the armrests of his chair and sat up straight, prepared to defend himself. M. could not believe that Bond would be such a cad. The thought was unbearable.

"I would never take a woman to bed against her will, sir."

"Yet, how would you know, if it is your base assumption that all women want to go to bed with you?"

The fairly euphemistic language sounded lewd when uttered by M. The heat in Bond's cheeks rose to his ears.

"It's not. I've been turned down plenty of times." M. smiled at that, and James wanted to sink through the floor. "Besides, her previous inclinations were hardly 'natural'," he muttered, trying to win some dignity back, but as soon as he said it he heard how petty and childish it sounded.

"Weren't they?" M. asked.

Bond stared at him. Surely he wasn't saying ... surely they weren't having this conversation, here, in this office?

"She was a lesbian."

"She slept with you, so no, she probably wasn't a lesbian. Though this girl Tillerson might have been. But plenty of people indulge in more than one kind of sexual behaviour. That the girl would go to bed with you does not mean you 'cured her' of anything. She might very well be sleeping in the arms of another woman right now, and good for her if she is. I can't think of anything that's _more_ natural than the pursuit of pleasure, no matter what form it takes. It seems strange to me that a man of such ... voracious appetites as you would disagree."

"I ..."

Again, Bond was lost for words. He felt like Alice at the Mad Hatter's party, grappling to understand a conversation that followed none of the usual rules and was introducing new, exotic words and concepts that were either genius, or nonsense, or both. M. was discussing sex with him. M. was saying ... what? That no sexual behaviour was unnatural behaviour? Why? Why was this a subject he chose to pontificate on in front of James? A subject that had little to nothing to do with their original conversation, and which went against the laws of the very country they both worked for. Dangerous words. Words that could have him fired, if Bond reported it to the higher ups. Not that Bond would. Not that he could ever lift a finger to hurt M. And as he saw M. regard him steadily it dawned on him that M. knew this.

Out of the depths of his mind, from the edge of the subconscious, a voice spoke to him like Satan to Judas: _Why can't you go against him? What is the power this man holds over you? Isn't that power just as unnatural as the sexual acts he is alluding to? Shouldn't you throw off that yoke, before it brings you crumbling down? What do you owe him? He wasn't the one who recruited you. He's never saved your life in the field. What is this bond of loyalty? Why couldn't you betray him? He isn't England personified._

No. M. was just M. The man with the knowledge, the power, and the responsibility that kept this ship afloat. The man who'd frequently indulged Bond's less conventional methods. Who Bond could always count on to stand up for him and let him back into the fold, to compliment him in public and criticize him in private. The man whose approval mattered more to Bond than anything, not because it decided the course of his career (Bond had long since accepted that his career would end in his death before it came to a promotion of any kind) but because Bond craved it. A man who certainly knew about more than one of Bond's romantic affairs, even though Bond had not given that much thought before. And ... a man who "indulged in the pursuit of pleasure, whatever form it takes"? Had that been the implication? Or was this merely a theoretical exercise, a philosophical standpoint M. held but which did not apply to his own life?

The idea of M. as a sexual being opened up a Pandora's Box in Bond's mind, and while he desperately tried to snap the lid back on, the thoughts flew out, one after the other. A vague memory of someone mentioning, early in his career in the service, that M. had taken the day off because of his wife's funeral. The ring on M.'s finger. The picture of a young woman in a 1930's dress that stood on the sideboard in M.'s office, a beautiful woman who smirked back at the viewer with intelligent eyes. Eyes that surely would have noticed it if her husband was ... A sudden vision of a younger M. and his wife in bed, making love. And, as James scrambled to shut that one out, in its place came the image of M. bent over a faceless male body, hands on another man's hips, thrusting ... No, God, why were these images in his head?

Bond's mouth was dry, and his heart was beating in his chest like a distressed animal throwing itself at the walls of its cage.

M. studied him, and for a few horrific seconds Bond was sure his every thought was written on his face.

"You look confused, James."

Again, his first name. Again, it sounded strangely intimate. If earlier in the conversation it had felt like an arm slung around his shoulders, now it felt like fingers running through the hair at the nape of his neck and grabbing him by it. Or like a thumb pressing against his bottom lip. That particular image made him grateful he'd already been blushing for some time now.

"I ... This wasn't a discussion I was expecting to have today, sir."

"No, I should think not. But it's something you need to hear. An agent needs to think quickly, but he – or she – also needs to keep an open mind at all to times. Overlooking possibilities and letting people you've already judged catch you by surprise is just as dangerous as not evaluating a threat quickly enough. And you need to put less faith in stereotypes and prejudices than in the observed behaviour of the people around you."

"Maybe the behaviour I've observed hasn't indicated the true nature of the person at all."

The words flew out, and once they were out there Bond regarded them in horror. He wanted to reach into the air and grab them, put them back into his mouth and swallow them.

M.'s eyebrows rose incrementally. "Or maybe you decided you had it all worked out so quickly that you stopped observing."

Bond still felt like Alice, and by now he was tumbling through the rabbit hole, ever deeper, unsure of what was up and what was down. What were they talking about? If he had been having this conversation with a woman, he'd have been utterly convinced she was flirting with him. But this was M. M. couldn't be ... _Maybe you decided you had it all worked out so quickly that you stopped observing._ What was there to observe? M. had given no physical sign of ... Bond had a hard time even thinking the words "flirting with him". Only the smile that played on M.'s lips and the unwavering nature of his gaze, but those were hardly conclusive. That just meant he enjoyed putting Bond in his place every now and then. But his words hinted at M. himself being one of the people they were discussing, didn't they? That he was, and that Bond had never noticed because he hadn't even considered it. This wasn't conclusive either, but would M. risk even hinting at it if it wasn't the case? Such a dangerous suggestion? And if it was true, why would he reveal it to Bond, giving Bond such power over his career, and life, unless he was trying to achieve something?

Well, maybe he was only trying to achieve a change of mind in Bond. That had been the stated objective of this strange turn of events, hadn't it? Nothing sinister, just ...

M. made a point of turning to look at the clock above the door. "I have some paperwork that needs doing before I leave for today," he said. "You can leave if you like. You're relieved of your duties for this week."

 _You can leave if you like?_ What did that mean? Was he supposed to leave or not?

M. put Bond's rapport to the side, picked up another bundle of paper from his IN-tray and began going through them. The clock ticked on the wall. Bond's heart kept double time. His fingers seemed to have stuck in their cramped grip on the chair. The muscles on his legs, on the other hand, seemed to have atrophied completely.

Coming to the last paper, M. looked at Bond over his reading glasses.

"Still here?"

Bond's tongue was a dry leaf in his mouth. He couldn't reply. M. leaned over to the intercom.

"Miss Moneypenny?"

"Yes, sir?" came the static-riddled reply.

"I'll stay behind for a while longer, but there's no need for me to keep you working this late on a Friday. You go on. Have a nice weekend."

"Thank you, sir. You too, sir."

The device turned off with a click. M. looked at Bond one more before turning to his papers. Outside, Bond could vaguely hear the scraping of a chair, the closing of a door. He should get up. He should stand up and say: "Thanks for today, sir. I've appreciated the conversation and will attempt to take it to heart, sir. Have a nice weekend, sir." Something along those lines. But his body conspired against him. It would not move. It would not talk. It would not leave. The ticking of the clock rang out seconds the length of eons. He didn't know if it had been minutes or hours when M. collected the papers in front of him and put them in the OUT-tray.

M. looked at him again, and took off his glasses. "You may leave, James."

Again, Bond didn't know what to do with this choice that was presented to him. Did leaving mean he'd disappoint M.? Did staying mean he was agreeing to ... something?

Yes, it did. Of course it meant he was agreeing to something. He wasn't stupid for God's sake. He could grasp where a situation was heading, even if it didn't comport with his previous view of the world. Which had been what M. tried to tell him. So maybe this was just him making a point after all. Maybe he'd smile and say "good man, now go home and enjoy your weekend." The thought alone brought Bond some measure of relief. If only for a second.

M. gestured for James to come forward. And suddenly the legs that had refused to bend to his will bent – or rather unbent – to M.'s will without hesitation, and walked him around the desk to stand in front of M., who'd swivelled his chair a quarter of turn. A desk drawer snapped shut and Bond saw M. put something in his pocket.

M. smiled. That smile usually made Bond feel proud, happy, giddy even. Now it made him feel like a schoolboy who'd been called to the principal's office for a thrashing only to find the man smiling at him, and who was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"You're a bundle of contradictions, aren't you, James?" M. said. His seated position should put him at a disadvantage, but instead it put Bond in mind of a king on his throne, inspecting his subject.

"Sir."

Oh, good. His tongue worked again, even if his vocabulary didn't.

"You have an opinion about everything and everyone, and usually an unkind one. Yet, you go through life partaking of everything. Or, well. Almost everything. You deride people who are slaves to their masters or to their inclinations. Yet ..."

He stood up, inspected Bond yet again, and reached over to adjust Bond's lapels and his tie.

"... here you are."

The hand on the knot of his tie made Bond feel at once like a convicted man being sized up for his noose and like a dog having its collar grabbed by its master.

"I've told you three times that you are free to go, James. And we shan't bring this up ever again."

His brain shouted at him to leave. But. But if he left, he 'd never find out what would have happened if he'd stayed.

 _You know what's about to happen. You're not some innocent little schoolboy. You might not have done this before, but you know, you know what he wants from you, don't let him, don't let him have it,_ shouted one voice. Probably the voice of reason _. But it's M.,_ protested another. _How can I not let M. have whatever he wants? It's impossible. Unthinkable._

 _Then what are you?_ shouted the first voice. _A hypocrite_ , said a voice that sounded like M.'s.

That was the thought that rang through his head as M. pushed him, step by step, until he'd backed Bond into the wall, and pressed his mouth to Bond's. A hand came up to Bond's jaw, effortlessly pulling it open. A tongue invaded his mouth. Bond's own hands came up to push feebly against M's chest.

 _No,_ one voice said. _I'm not like this. I don't enjoy things like this. No._

 _You could push him away if you wanted,_ said another. _You could incapacitate him with two moves. You could kill him with your bare hands. Don't pretend you're fooling anyone by pushing at him like some little girl trying to pretend she's not a tramp._

Now his hands were shaking, holding on to M.'s shirt for dear life. The fabric was smooth and cool under his fingers. Time moved in fits and starts. M. must have taken of both his jacket and his waistcoat without Bond even noticing.

M. tasted of tea and pipe tobacco.

Lips left his, and he gasped for air. "Turn around," M. said. Once again, Bond's legs swiftly obeyed orders without consulting his brain. As he turned, firm hands pulled off his jacket and shirt, which had apparently been unbuttoned at some point. The same hands brushed gently over his shoulders, pressing forward until James was bracing himself with his palms and his forehead against the wall. His chest heaved. There was not enough oxygen in the room. The hands slid all the way down to his hips. Another man's groin pressed against Bond's backside.

_What's happening?_

_You know what's happening._

_I didn't want this._

_You're sure acting as if you want it._

The hands left and for a moment there was no contact except the hips – and the cloth covered but unmistakable erection – that pressed against him. Then M. leaned over him, bare-chested now, and his skin was warm against Bond's back, making the rest of him feel cold by contrast. Some part of his brain that wasn't screaming in terror at what he was doing registered that M. had hair on the upper part of his chest. The hands returned in full force, running down the front of Bond's body, opening his belt and fly, letting his trousers fall to the floor, palming his cock through his pants. He was hard.

_No. No, I'm not. I'm not hard from a few kisses and a grope from a man almost twenty years my senior. From a man, period. I'm not._

_Yes you are. M. was right. You're a hypocrite. Jeering about women who willingly spread their legs for you, then you turn around to drop your pants and spread your own legs at the merest hint from him. You wanton. You pansy. Maybe this is why you've always been able to play it cool with women. Because what really gets you fired up is the idea of bending over for your boss. What was it you said to Tiffany Case? "Matter of fact I'm almost married already. To a man. Name begins with M. I'd have to divorce him before I tried marrying a woman. And I'm not sure I'd want that."* Well, now you're here. Moaning like a whore for him._ And he _was_ making noises, he could hear himself, but it wasn't moaning so much as whimpering.

"Good," he heard M. whisper close to his ear. "Good." Had he, too, been wondering why Bond was going along with this? Had he, too, been almost surprised at this physical proof of excitement? Was he, unlike Bond, now convinced that his was a good idea?

_It's a terrible idea._

_Of course it is. But it's M. M. is holding me and wrapped around me and so warm ..._

_You're pathetic. He's tricked you. All this time. All this time you've looked up to him, thought he cared about you, thought you were special, and this was all he wanted. He was only an old lech, and you idolized him._

_And so what if it was? Is this is what he wants from me he can have it, he can have me, he can have anything._

_You're pathetic._

_Yes. I'm pathetic._

Once more distracted by the war that was being waged inside him, and by the kisses being planted on his neck and shoulders, Bond didn't notice his pants had been shoved down until something slick – it took Bond a horrified second to realise it was only a finger – pressed against his anus. "Breathe," M whispered into his ear. "Relax." For the third time this day, his body obeyed M's command. "There you go. Good man."

The sensation of something moving inside him was strange, but the pain he had expected did not come. The finger hadn't been dry. Bond remembered the snap of a drawer, something being pocketed. Vaseline. M. had had it in his desk. At work. Granted, there were other uses for vaseline, but, in his office? Had he done this before? Was the house full of men who kept quiet about the fact that they'd bent over for their boss?

_Of course not. He gave you every chance to leave, didn't he? Do you really think anyone else stayed? Do you think they're as greedy for his approval as you are? That they'd arch into his touch the way you are doing now? He's got two fingers inside you now. You didn't even notice the change. One touch from him and you're suddenly a willing catamite, opening up for him like a flower for the sun. Like a starved housewife throwing herself at the handyman, already wet and ready._

When the third finger was added, Bond felt it. He groaned, and M. slapped his free hand over Bond's mouth. Jesus, was Tanner still here, somewhere on this floor? If he was, what good would silencing Bond have done at this point? If the walls were that thin after all, wouldn't he already have heard ... His mind supplied him with the image of the Chief of Staff Bill Tanner standing on the other side of the wall Bond was leaning against, grimacing in disgust as he heard the unmistakeable sounds of Bond getting buggered, of Bond's uninhibited moaning and pleading once M.'s hands would be busy holding on to Bond's hips as he thrust into him again and again. "Ah!" Bond cried, thankfully muffled by M.'s hand.

"Shh, you're doing so well, love. Just keep breathing."

_Love._

The endearment sent waves of humiliation and elation crashing over Bond so close to each other that it left him breathless.

_He's said that to other people he's taken advantage of. You're nothing special to him. You never were._

_I don't care. Don't care, don't care ..._

_What are you, a little schoolgirl in love with her teacher, unable to see that any lecher who would have her would be a monster?_

_I'm no child. And he's no monster. He's divine. Feels so good._

_You're pathetic. You're a pathetic pansy. It took you almost 40 years to realise, but now you see you're nothing but a pathetic little pansy._

_Yes. I am pathetic. But it feels so good._

"James?"

M. stilled against him, fingers stopping just short of that spot they'd found a few seconds ago and had been aiming for since.

James was shaking.

"James, my boy, are you crying?"

_No. No. No._

A hand brushed against his cheek, and yes, there were tears. The fingers quickly left him.

"No!"

_Oh, now you can talk? Now you can say no?_

"No, don't ... don't stop, don't ..."

He hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut, unable to face the man behind him.

"James ... We can forget this. We'll never mention it again, it will change nothing."

James almost laughed. How could M. say something so silly? It had already changed everything.

"No. Please. Don't stop. Please, sir."

M. made a sound that was closer to a growl than speech. It was the most animalistic noise Bond had ever heard him make. It sent a shiver down his spine. Emboldened, and desperate to draw attention away from the tears on his face, he pressed his hips backwards."Please, sir,” he repeated.

If Tanner _was_ here there, maybe they could make him faint and hit his head so he wouldn't remember a thing.

The fingers didn't return. Instead, another piece of M.'s anatomy pressed inside him. It felt huge. Bond almost wished he'd looked behind him to see if it was really that big or if it was just that his body was so unaccustomed to the sensation. This time it did hurt, a little. There was a burn that bridged pain and pleasure, a warm sensation that radiated through his body. He gasped and bit his lower lip, hard. M. buried his face in the crook of Bond's neck, groaning into his skin. Teeth rasped against his neck. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then M. raised his head a little, moved slowly back and forward once, and whispered, "God, you feel good."

A shiver ran through Bond, as if this was higher praise than any compliments on his casework he'd ever received from the man. "There you go. There you go." It was an interesting phrase to keep repeating. As if he was giving Bond a gift every time he slid back in.

_You're certainly receiving it as enthusiastically as if it was. You pathetic ..._

But as M. kept reaching that spot inside him, Bond stopped caring that he was pathetic. Stopped caring what he was, at all. He leaned forward even more, placing his cheek against the wall, his shaking body desperate for some more support. The polished wood of the wall panel felt cool and soft against his face. Beside him, the hand he'd had splayed against the wall was covered by M.'s. Roughly the same size as Bond's, M.'s hand was bonier, more calloused, but the skin on the back of his hand looked soft, the blue veins visible, the hairs there nearly transparent but shifting more towards grey than brown. His fingers, slotting in between Bond's, were warm and dry. Bond stared at them, nearly hypnotised. M. was enveloping him. M. was inside him. M. was everything there was.

"Go on. I want to watch you."

It shouldn't have surprised Bond that that was all it took. After all, his body had been taking its cues from M. all evening. He shuddered, spending himself against the wall.

"Good. You're being so good for me."

Bond nearly blacked out in pleasure. His legs went weak. Warm hands guided him away from the wall, and over to the desk. Like the vision he'd seen in his head, he let M. carefully drape him across the red leather desktop, re-enter him and rut for a minute or two more before he slid out and James felt something warm and wet slide down his thigh. He prayed it was only the obvious. It hadn't hurt that much, so it shouldn't be blood, but then he'd felt almost drugged through most of it, so what did he know?

He heard, distantly, M. walk around the room, gather their clothes, put his on.

"James? Are you still with us?"

"Yes."

"Good. Put your clothes on, there's a good chap. Time to leave. Here. Wipe yourself off a bit." A piece of cloth was put in James' hand, already slightly sticky. M. must have used it to wipe off the wall, he realised. He looked over and saw M. button his shirt over his naked chest. The hair there was gray too. It should probably have made M. look frailer, less virile. It certainly shouldn't make Bond's insides twitch. He looked at the piece of clothing in his hand, realising it was M.'s undershirt. Laboriously, he sat up, wiped the inside of his thighs clean of his boss' semen, using his boss' clothes, trying to make sense of the world again and failing. As he put away the cloth and looked around for the clothes that M. had placed on the desk beside him, he noticed the now fully dressed M. was looking at him with a blaze in his eyes that warmed Bond's skin from across the room.

"You really are something to look at. Perhaps it's no wonder you let it go to your head."

"Thanks," Bond said. As he was saying it he became unsure about whether it had been the right thing to say, and the word faded into a whisper. Suddenly bashful, he pulled on his pants and trousers in a hurry, and scrambled for his shirt. M. walked up to him slowly, almost pensively, as Bond's shaking fingers struggled with the buttons. M.'s left hand came up to caress his face, his thumb brushing gently over his lower lip. Reacting more on instinct than anything else, Bond repaid tenderness with tenderness, by kissing the digit, and when M. applied pressure, ge opened his lips and sucked it into his mouth. M. made that growling sound again, the one that made Bond feel like an antelope instead of a lion. He had to close his eyes, the look he received from M. was to intense to face.

"Dear James,” murmured M. “Sweet, dear James. If I had know this was what you needed, I'd have given it to you years ago."

Band squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. He couldn't say: "No, you've got it wrong, I was the one who gave you what you wanted.". He couldn't say: "No, no, I didn't need this, I didn't even want this, I'm not a bloody queer." He couldn't say anything at all.

"I'd intended this to be a isolated event," M. said, "but if you keep doing that to my thumb, we're going to have to make it a regular occurrence."

Bond shuddered.

_Let him go, then. Get out of here. Don't give him a chance to do that to you again.  
But God help me, I want him to do it again.  
You're not a bloody queer. Are you a bloody queer?  
I don't know. I want to wake up and find this never happened. I want him to touch me again. _

"Clearly you have some needs that we didn't address this time," M. continued, pressing the pad of his thumb against Bond's tongue. Bond shuddered again.

_You wouldn't. You wouldn't dare get on your knees for him like a tawdry whore. Are you really already so far gone you'd let him put his cock in your mouth?_

Bond looked up then, into the grey eyes of the man who'd just done things to his body that the Bond of this morning would never have let anyone do. He let M.'s thumb go. No, he didn't think he wanted that. But he hadn't thought he wanted this, either.

M. leaned over and kissed his temple.

"Turn the lights off before you leave, would you?" he said.

Then he grabbed his coat, and left.

Bond looked around, at the cloth he'd dropped on the floor, at his jacket draped over the chair, at the IN- and OUT-trays beside him. There had to be classified material there. For M.'s eyes only - and he'd just left Bond in here.

_He trusts me._

_He owns you._

Bond put his jacket on, picked up the cloth to discard it somewhere where it would be less conspicuous.

_Yes. Yes, he does._

* * *

*Yep, that's an actual quote from Diamonds are Forever.


End file.
